SINGING MOON
We shout our defiance to the skies
To the sun shining in our eyes
The House of Deveraux has power
And it grows with every passing hour
Attend, anon, each Cahors Witch
For words alone can make us rich
The Crone bids us listen each hour
For words bring knowledge and knowledge power
Holly and Amanda: Seattle, the first moon after Lammas
In Autumn of the Coventry year, one reaps exactly what one sows, multiplied sevenfold. It is as true of the souls of the dead as it is of sheaves of grain and clusters of grapes.
A full year had passed since Holly Cathers’s parents had drowned, and her best friend, Tina Davis-Chin, with them, whitewater rafting on the Colorado River. Death had invaded the Anderson home in Seattle, taking Marie-Claire, the sister of Holly’s father. Marie-Claire Cathers-Anderson lay rotting in one of the two plots she and her husband, Richard, had purchased together once upon a romantic dream of eternity. The reality of her adultery made it very hard for Uncle Richard to hope for another, better place where she waited for him—a fact that he told Holly often, now that he had taken to drinking late at night.
Tina’s mother, Barbara Davis-Chin, lay sick in Marin County General back in San Francisco. She had once been an ER doc there with Holly’s mom. Now that Holly had learned of the witchery world and taken her place at the head of her own coven, she knew Barbara’s condition had been no accident.
Barbara’s illness was Michael’s first attack on us because he wanted me here in Seattle. I had planned to live with Barbara, but he needed me here . . . because he wanted to kill me.
Bolts of lightning sizzled overhead amid cascades of icy cold rain. Supercharged volts fanned out like search parties as their many-armed, air-splitting zigzags slammed in to the earth. Holly felt very vulnerable in the family station wagon, a slow-moving duck wading through the puddles. Three blocks from Kari Hardwicke’s place, she got out of the station wagon and ran the rest of the way.
Heavily warded, Holly wore a cloak of invisibility that Tante Cecile, a voodoo practitioner, and Dan Carter, a northwest Native American shaman, had worked together to create. She had taken to wearing it whenever she had to go out. The cloak was by no means perfect, often losing its power to conceal her, but Holly had worn it faithfully ever since they had gifted her with it less than a week after the battle of the Black Fire last Beltane.
The coven was waiting for her at Kari’s grad student apartment, which was located in a funky reconverted Queen Anne mansion near the University of Washington at Seattle. Kari was the one who had demanded the coven convene for a Circle. Last night at three A.M.—the Dark Hour of the Soul—she had suddenly awakened from a terrible nightmare that she could not remember. Drawn to the window, she had watched in horror as monsters dove past her turret room—huge, jet-black creatures that she was almost certain were oversized falcons.
Falcons were the totem of the Deveraux family.
If Michael Deveraux had returned to Seattle, and if on top of that, he had found a way to rescue his evil son, Eli, the Cathers/Anderson Coven was in deep and possibly fatal trouble. Michael Deveraux longed to conclude the blood feud begun by the Cathers and Deveraux ancestors so many centuries ago. That vendetta demanded no less than the death of every Cathers witch alive—namely Holly and her cousins, Amanda and Nicole.
As leader of the Cathers/Anderson Coven, it fell to Holly to protect them all and to save herself.
She had very little in the way of weaponry. She had known she was a witch for less than a year, while the Deveraux had never forgotten that their ancient lineage ranked them among the most hated and feared warlocks of all time. While her last name was Cathers, her ancestors had been of the noble witch house of Cahors, of medieval France. Over time their identity had been lost along with their real name. Holly believed that her father had known about the witch blood that ran in his veins, but she wasn’t certain of that. She did know he had broken with the Seattle branch of the family, and it was only upon his death that Holly had learned he’d had a sister, and that she, Holly, had cousins.
Holly wondered what he would think if he knew she had reluctantly embraced her witch blood, and that she now led a full coven. Never mind that that coven was a ragtag mélange of traditions and powers, consisting of Amanda; Amanda’s friend Tommy Nagai; Cecile Beaufrere, voodoo practitioner, and her daughter, Silvana; and the remnants of Jer’s Rebel Coven—Eddie Hinook and his lover, Kialish Carter, and Jer’s former lover, Kari Hardwicke. Kialish’s father was the shaman who had helped with her cloak, but he had not formally joined the Circle.
The Cathers/Anderson Coven was like a tiny paper boat in an ocean, when compared to the forces of evil massed against it.
Lightning arced directly overhead, interrupting her worrying. It seemed these days she was always worried.
Along the street, faces glanced anxiously through rain-blurred windows as Holly ran past them. The inhabitants no doubt enjoyed a measure of comfort in the knowledge that lightning rods protected their houses. But Holly knew that if Michael Deveraux sent the lightning, no conventional protection would save a building from being burned to the ground.
“Goddess, breathe blessings on me,” she murmured as she kept to the shadows and moved her fingers firmly shrouded in the cloak. “Protect my Circle. Protect me.”
It had become her mantra . . . and sometimes, the only thing that kept her from panicking completely.
Every night, I go to sleep wondering if Michael Deveraux has returned to Seattle . . .
. . . and if I’ll wake up the next morning.
In her anxiety over Holly’s arrival, Amanda Anderson placed her face and hands against the cold window pane in the turret room of Kari Hardwicke’s apartment. The scar crossing her right palm would give her away as a Cathers witch to any knowing set of eyes, be they bird or warlock; remembering that, she plucked her hands quickly from the glass and cradled them both against her chest.
Behind her, Tante—”Aunt,” in French—Cecile Beaufrere and her daughter, Silvana, bustled around the apartment checking on the wards they and Dan Carter had helped Holly and Amanda install. The two had closed up their New Orleans house and moved back to Seattle to help Holly’s coven fight the Deveraux. For their own personal protection, mother and daughter had woven amulets of silver and glass beads into the cornrows of their soft black hair, and they looked like Nubian warriors preparing for a great hunt.
“It would be better if Nicole were here,” Silvana murmured. “The three Cathers witches united make stronger magic than just Holly and Amanda.” Proof of that lay in the fact that each of the three bore a segment of the Cahors symbol, the lily, burned into her palm. Placed together, the cousins were stronger magically than they were separately.
But the three were only two in the current incarnation of the Circle. They had been reduced to two immediately after the Battle of the Black Fire. The reality of what they were doing had hit Amanda’s sister, Nicole, too hard. She had run away, leaving Seattle behind, and the two remaining Cathers witches had no idea where she was.
While it was difficult for Amanda to blame her sister, it left everyone else weak and vulnerable to any potential attacks by the Deveraux. Holly had convinced the coven to spend the summer training, growing in the Art, and trying to work with Jer’s followers. And all during that summer, they saw no trace of Michael Deveraux, head of the Deveraux Coven and Jer’s father, whom Jer himself had repudiated. Nor had they seen Michael’s older son, Eli, who had been carried off, burning with Black Fire, by an enormous magical falcon.
No one had seen a Deveraux since.
The screech of a bird echoed through the thunder. Holly glanced up, squinting through the rain. A flock of blackbirds soared and cartwheeled, tempest-tossed, their eyes flashing, their blue-black wings beating back the storm.
They were falcons.
Holly hurried on, reaching the apartment without alerting the birds—or so it appeared, and so she prayed—and Amanda opened the door before Holly could knock. Like Holly, Amanda had matured, her face thinner, her mousy hair streaked through with summer highlights. She was no longer the “boring” twin to Nicole’s vibrant drama. She was steady and wise—in magical terms, a priestess. Holly was grateful to her core for Amanda’s presence.
“Were you . . . did you get here okay?” Amanda asked, taking in Holly’s sopping wet appearance.
“The car was too much of a target,” Holly said. “I came on foot.”
“Don’t you own a broom yet?” That was Kari, who was terrified. Holly forgave her her snide comment, but she was tired of all the snipes Kari had shot her way over the past months.
She hates me, Holly thought. She blames me for Jer’s death.
She’s right I killed him.
Holly cleared her throat as the others assembled, all facing her. They looked at her expectantly, as if she would know what to do now. The truth was, she had no idea.
“We need to form a circle. Who will be our Long Arm of the Law tonight?” she asked, gazing at the three men in their midst. As was common in many Wiccan traditions, in Holly’s coven the women performed the magic while the men kept the circle safe from harm. She who conducted the rite was the coven’s designated High Priestess. Her male counterpart was called the Long Arm of the Law. In the Cathers/Anderson Coven, he cut all harm with a very splendid old sword, which Tante Cecile had located in an antique shop and the coven had infused with magic.
“I’ll serve,” Tommy said, inclining his head.
“Then kneel,” Holly instructed him, “and receive my blessing.”
He got down on his knees. Amanda came forward with a beautifully carved bone dipper of oil in which floated Holly’s favorite magical herb, rosemary. The herb was associated with remembrance; it boggled Holly that her family had carried Cahors witch blood in their veins for centuries, and yet the memory had been lost.
Holly moved her hands over the oil, silently invoking the Goddess, while Silvana presented the sword to the circle and placed it between Tommy’s clasped hands. It was made of bronze, and extremely heavy. Runes and sigils had been carved into the hilt and etched in acid on the blade, but no one in the coven—not even Kari, who, as a graduate student, was steeped in the knowledge of various magic traditions and folkways—had been able to translate or decipher any of them.
Tommy breathed deeply, becoming one with the sword and with Holly’s own rhythmic breaths. The rest took their places around Holly and Tommy in the circle, forming a living, single magical being.
We’re one, Holly thought. We have a power the Deveraux do not. Through love, we are trying to break down our barriers and work fully together. Their system is based on power, wresting it away from others and holding on to it at all costs. And I have to believe that love is stronger than that.
“I bless your brow, for wisdom’s sake,” she said, making a pentagram with oil on his forehead.
“I bless your eyes, for good vision and sharp sight.” She dotted each closed eyelid with more oil.
“I bless your sense of smell, for detection of hellish sulfur.” She ran a line of oil down his nose.
She blessed his mouth, that he might call out a warning in case of attack. She blessed his heart, for courage, and his arms, for the strength to wield his sword well against trespassers.
Then she deliberately placed her thumb on the sharp edge of the sword, wincing as she cut herself. Drops of blood ran down the blade, feeding it.
Love might be the coin of the realm, but blood still fed the circle. The Cahors had not been a gentle house; in their day they had been just as ruthless as the Deveraux. What Holly hoped for was evolution, a chance to reinvent her family’s path. Since so much had been lost in the intervening centuries, she was trying to find the balance between new magical forms and the traditions her coven must observe in order for the magic to work. It was slow going, a process of trial and error . . . but if Michael was back to threaten them, she would have to do whatever it took to keep her people safe, no matter how “unevolved” it was.
But this was not the time for such ruminations; she quickly finished Tommy’s anointing.
“I bless you from crown to heel, Tommy. Rise, my Long Arm of the Law, and embrace your priestess.”
Tommy stood tall as Holly handed the dipper back to Amanda. Then she put her arms around him, careful not to touch the sword with her body, and kissed him gently on the lips.
She took a step backward, and Tommy said, “I will sever any snares our enemies have set.”
“Blessed be,” the circle murmured.
Amanda and Kari let go of each other’s hands, allowing Tommy to pass.
“I will smite our enemies’ imps and familiars, be they invisible or disguised,” he continued.
“Blessed be,” the circle said again.
With great effort, he raised the sword toward the ceiling.
“And I—”
A terrible scream shattered the moment. Something flashed, glowing green. Wind whipped through the room, frigid and solid like ice. The stench of sulfur invaded the space.
Tommy staggered backward. “Look!” Kari screamed, pointing.
Grunting, Tommy jabbed the sword tip toward the ceiling. The glow was pierced; a phosphorescent, semiliquid stream of green tumbled around the sword tip and dripped onto the floor. Kari jumped away from it, and the rest of the circle struggled to keep their hands clasped.
The glow vibrated, then faded.
“Oh, my God,” Kari gasped.
Skewered on the tip of the sword was the likeness of a falcon jerking in its death throes. It was not a real bird, but a magical representation; the green glow thickened and became blood, steaming and fresh. Tommy’s hands were coated with it, and it was dripping onto the floor.
As Holly stared in dread fascination, the bird’s mouth dropped open. A disembodied voice echoed throughout the room:
“You Cahors whores, you’ll be dead by midsummer.”
With one last shudder, the bird stopped moving. Its eyes stared dully out at the circle.
There was a silence.
Then Amanda said, “He’s back. Michael Deveraux is back.”
Holly closed her eyes; dread and stark fear washed over her.
Here we go, she thought. The battle lines have just been drawn. How can we possibly fight him?
More to the point . . . how can we hope to beat him?
Nicole: Cologne, Germany, September
Nicole threw a terrified glance over her shoulder as she raced down the corridors of the train station. A train rumbled away; her footsteps echoed like staccato points to the bass line of its leave-taking. The pink and gold streaks of dawn chased the shadows, and she was terribly grateful; the night had held sway far too long, and she was exhausted.
I should have stayed in Seattle, she thought. I thought I’d be safer if I ran away . . . but there’s that old saying about dividing and conquering . . . except that I don’t know what it is. . . .
Ever since she’d been in London three months ago, something had been following her. It was not a person, not in the traditional sense; it was something that could glide along the walls of buildings and perch on gabled rooftops—something that could trail after her with a rush of wings and a lone cry. She had not been able to see it; but in her mind, it was a falcon, and it was Michael Deveraux’s eyes and ears, harrying her like the little mouse she was.
She wasn’t certain that it had ever actually located her. Perhaps it was blindly lurking, waiting for her to use magic to reveal herself. That idea gave her hope that she might survive long enough to figure out what to do. I’m terrified to contact Holly and Amanda. . . . What if that reveals my presence to whatever this thing is? Like answering “Polo” when the blindfolded guy who’s saying “Marco” is six inches away from you?
She was on her way to holy ground; she had covered much of Europe from London to France to Germany by leapfrogging from church to graveyard to chapel to cathedral. She didn’t know if her gut instinct to seek safe harbor in mosques, synagogues, and Christian churches was correct. All she knew was that she felt better within walls built by people who adhered to some sort of faith tradition . . . as if their faith protected her from evil.
She listened to that instinct and to the urge to keep moving. The shadow was following her, and she had the feeling that if she kept moving, it might never land on her—might not carry her off, the way that huge falcon had carried off Eli.
Did he die?
What about Holly and Amanda? I abandoned them. I’m so ashamed. I was so scared. . . .
She had ridden a train all night. Her destination this dawn was the famous Dom of Cologne, an ancient medieval cathedral said to house relics of the Three Kings. She had read about it in a guidebook; she had bought and memorized more guidebooks about religious buildings in Europe than could be carried in a fully stocked travel store. She had taken an enormous number of trains. She had spent tons of money.
Problem is, I’m almost out of money. . . . What am I going to do when I can’t run anymore?
Up the steps, she stopped. A hundred feet away, rising at the edge of a square, the tall Gothic structure loomed like a monolith. Its spire stretched toward the heavens; the rosettes and statues that cluttered the entry were dark gray, welcoming.
Gray magic is what the Cathers are all about, she thought. Our ancestors, the Cahors, were not very good people. They were just . . . less evil than the Deveraux.
We aren’t necessarily the good guys.
Still, heaven seems happy to shelter us.
Taking a deep breath, Nicole raced across the square and pushed open the doors of the church.
It was cool inside; a row of men in brown robes tied with black sashes stood with their backs to her and sang in Latin. A priest in a collar raised his eyes inquiringly; she knew he saw a young woman in jeans and a peasant top, carrying a backpack. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head and she wore no makeup. She was sunburned and there were circles under her eyes.
In three months Nicole had had an unbroken night of sleep exactly twice.
I’m so tired and scared.
Scowling at her, the priest waved his finger in her face. “Hier darf man nicht schlafen, verstehen Sie?” he asked her sternly. Do you understand that you may not sleep in here?
“Ja,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes welled with tears, and the man immediately softened.
He walked a few steps backward, gesturing to the pews. There were no other people there except for the row of monks singing an early-morning Mass.
Nicole inclined her head and said, “Danke schön.” “Thank you” was one of the “Useful Words and Phrases” she had memorized from one of her guidebooks.
She slid into the nearest pew and sat back, staring up at the celestial heights of the arched ceiling high above her. As she let the atmosphere of the church permeate her being, she could visualize the sun piercing the darkness above the spire.
And then, in her mind’s eye, a dark shadow flitted between her and the sun.
She gasped aloud. The traveling shadow was the silhouette of a bird. And she sat inside this deceptive trap like a doomed, helpless mouse.
Then the church bells ran pealing out the message, All is well, all is well.
And that was a damn lie.
Jer: The Island of Avalon, October
The lie was that this was being alive.
Each instant that he lived was an eternity of torment. Each breath he took was a bellows in his chest, stoking the Black Fire flames as they roasted his heart and his lungs.
If he had been capable of coherent thought, Jer Deveraux would have begged the God to let him die. And beneath that supplication would have fluttered the terrible fear that he was dead already . . . and in Hell.
Echoing through his throbbing skull, words he could not comprehend told the tale of the rest of his unbearable existence: “If you have not killed Holly Cathers by midsummer, Michael, I will kill your son and feed his soul to my servants.”
And Michael Deveraux had answered, “I am yours to command in this and all things.”
From her perch in the shimmering blue mist that was the magic of the Cahors, the lady hawk, Pandion, ruffled her feathers and cocked her head. She heard a plaintive cry, as that from a mate, and prepared to take flight in search of it.
And from the green-glowing ether that was his rookery, Fantasme, the falcon familiar of the Deveraux, sharpened his talons on the skull of a long-dead foe.
Holly and Amanda: Seattle, October
We are all still alive. It’s been almost a month since the apparition of the falcon in our Circle, and we have managed to keep Michael Deveraux at bay.
Holly stared out at the ocean, allowing its vastness to sweep over her, engulf her until she felt small once more. She drew strength from her solitary walks along the shore; sometimes she wondered if Isabeau’s ghost walked with her, supporting her as she struggled to keep the coven together and to keep them safe from Michael Deveraux. There was power in the heartbeat of the waves, the ebb and flow of the great waters. The ocean was in its turn mother, lover, and enemy. The gentle, rhythmic lap of the waves was like the soothing beating of a mother’s heart as she cradled her baby.
Holly closed her eyes and let herself listen to the sound. She breathed in the fresh salty air, and for a moment she might have been anywhere—in San Francisco, her old home even, instead of her new one in Seattle.
Tears squeezed out from beneath her closed eyelids and rolled slowly down her cheeks. It had not been a good day. Any day you had to start with a phone call to your lawyer was not a good day.
Holly was only nineteen, yet dealing with her parents’ attorney had become a part of her life. Between talking to him and the financial planner who helped oversee her inheritance, she thought she might scream. There were always questions to answer and more papers to sign. They wanted to discuss her finances and her options for the future.
What if I have no future? What if I die tomorrow? she thought, a wave of bitterness choking her. I’m fighting for my life, for the lives of my family and friends, and nobody gets it. I don’t have time to worry about what I’m going to do five years from now. I probably won’t even be here.
Still, she knew that she should be grateful. If it weren’t for her parents’ careful planning, she wouldn’t have time to practice spells and learn all the practical things that could help extend her life. She would be too busy trying to work to keep herself fed. It was especially important now that Uncle Richard had given up all pretext of going to work. Good thing Aunt Marie-Claire had money, or Amanda would be in serious trouble.
In a way she envied Kari. The older girl still at least got to pretend that she had a life, something other than magic and spells. She was still going to grad school. Tommy and Amanda were trying to go to college as well. Holly knew that Amanda in particular, though, was struggling. Holly figured college was just one of those dreams she herself had to give up the day that she learned she was a witch. And that other people want to kill me.
She sighed heavily. The day had only gone from bad to worse when she had called the hospital to check on Barbara. Most weeks the news was the same: no change in status. This week, though, she could sense something, an uneasiness in the doctor’s voice that hadn’t been there seven days before. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She was sure that Barbara was somehow doing worse. And the doctors won’t admit it.
She felt herself begin to tremble. Barbara was her last tie to her own home, her parents, her childhood. Half a dozen times she had wanted to go to see her, to reassure herself that Barbara was truly still alive. But there were always more spells to learn, more protection rituals to perform. And there was the deep, dark fear in the back of her mind that if she got close to her, Barbara would die. Everything I love withers.
So she had come to the ocean to lose herself in its vastness, to seek its solace. The sea had comforted her before, and she prayed that it would again.
The waves reached up gently and tickled her toes, their caress soft and persuasive. The water called to her to come, explore, be one with it and its power. A tempting offer from a tempestuous lover. But Holly knew that the ocean could whisper words of soft promise one moment and then turn on you the next. It could change in seconds and kill so easily.
Never turn your back on it. Her father had told her that when she was five. She had been splashing in the waves for an hour when her mother called her to go put on more sunscreen. She had turned and tried to run out of the water. A huge wave had come out of nowhere and knocked her down. The undertow had sucked at her body, threatening to pull her out farther with it. She remembered trying to struggle, but the current had been too strong for her and she couldn’t stand up or get her head out of the water.
Daddy had swooped in and picked her up, carrying her carefully from the water and stepping backward the entire time. He had deposited her, frightened and crying, into her mother’s protective arms. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he bent down.
Never turn your back on the ocean, Holly. It may be beautiful, but it is also very dangerous.
She shivered now as an icy wind whipped around her and a wave slapped at her ankles. She took an involuntary step backward. Another wave slapped at her and she hopped back another step. The sound of the ocean was changing; instead of a gentle lapping sound, a dull roar jangled in her ears.
Startled, she had no time to react before a fresh wave crashed into her, soaking her in an instant in icy water waist-high and grasping at her with invisible hands.
The undertow pulled at her and she nearly lost her footing as she stumbled backward, shock quickly changing to fear. You are not five! her mind shouted at her as she fought to make it up onto the sand when another wave crashed around her chest. It knocked her off her feet and swept her several yards out.
I’ll be swept out to sea! Oh, my God, is this happening?
Her long skirt wound around her legs, binding them like a mermaid’s tail. Her arms were dead weights inside her heavy jacket. She could barely move, much less swim.
The fresh burst of panic focused her attention. I have to get out of these clothes.
“Goddess, grant me strength in battle and from death,” she murmured in a Spell of Protection. Whether it worked or she was buoyed by the thought that she was never truly alone, she managed to snake first one arm and then the other out of her heavy jacket. It bobbed in the waves like a bloated jellyfish.
She worked on her skirt next, but her hands fumbled at the drawstring. She couldn’t manage it; still terribly bogged down, she turned and tried to start swimming back to shore using only her arms. Within seconds, she was exhausted. Then a wave crashed over her and she coughed violently as her lungs dispelled the water she had just sucked in.
No sooner had she managed that, though, than another wave crested over her head. And another. Her brain began to numb and it locked on to the horrible images of the rafting trip that had claimed the lives of her parents and best friend. It’s been a year and now the water has come for me, she thought fuzzily.
I’m not the same helpless girl I was then, though. I’m a witch, and a powerful one. I should be able to do something to save myself.
She turned to look out to sea, her legs wearily treading water. What was it bodysurfers did? They rode the waves.
I can do that, too.
A huge wave began rolling in; Holly took a quick breath. “I can do this!” she cried as the wave reached her.
Her body was tossed up into the air, and then she was on top of the water, slightly in front of the crest of the wave.
She flew with dizzying speed toward the shore. Almost upon the beach, the wave broke behind her and threw her up onto the sand. Her mouth and eyes filled with the stinging granules as she clawed her way wildly up away from the water.
At last the strength in her limbs gave out and she collapsed, barely managing to roll onto her back as she coughed weakly. Her eyes stung and her face was raw, as though sand had been forcefully shoved into every pore and crevice. Her eyes began to tear fiercely and she let herself cry—to flush out her eyes, and to flush out her terror.
I nearly died. As I should have a year ago.
Don’t be ridiculous. I was not “supposed” to die. I was meant to live. I have a coven to run, followers to protect.
At last the tears stopped flowing; she blinked rapidly trying to clear her vision. Slowly the sky shifted into focus . . . and it was low and dark and menacing.
The air was heavy; it almost seemed to crackle. She glanced quickly around. Nothing seemed familiar. Had the wave washed her up farther down the beach?
Electricity crackled down her spine as she slowly straightened. There was magic here and it felt very, very old. Feeling strangely compelled, she turned around so that her back was to the ocean.
